


Sips

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vampires, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hugh keeps on Paul’s problem.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Sips

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Hugh’s always grateful for slow days in sickbay, mostly because it means the crew is healthy, and partially because it affords him time to deal with his better half. He’s able to make a short detour from his station, diverting to the turbolift, right down to Engineering, which buzzes like they’re smack in the middle of a vital mission. Maybe to the Engineering staff, they are. Paul’s brain never seems to stop working no matter what the rest of the ship is up to. Paul’s over by the spore drive, eyes buried in his console, and he doesn’t even look up until Hugh’s right beside him and complaining, “You missed lunch.”

Paul hums, “Hm?” and glances sideways. He doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty about it. Hugh frowns at him. 

“You weren’t in the mess hall. Our shifts lined up today. I checked. And I _just_ lectured you about this.”

Paul shrugs his shoulders and says, “I was working,” like that’s any excuse. 

Hugh sighs. It doesn’t matter to him who else hears; this has gone on too long. His lectures aren’t getting them anywhere, but he keeps pressing anyway, because he _loves_ this stubborn man who can’t be bothered to take as much care of himself as his precious spores. “You’re _always_ working. You need a break. And you _need_ to eat.”

Paul snorts. His voice lowers fractionally, though his condition’s hardly a secret. He tells Hugh, like Hugh isn’t acutely aware of every last aspect of his health, “You know the mess hall won’t help me anyway.”

“You need some kind of sustenance, Paul. Even if it’s just a little bit tiding you over.”

Paul wrinkles his nose. He finally turns away from the console, giving Hugh his full attention, but he still reasons, “I can get that later in our quarters.”

Hugh gives up on arguing. He slips his fingers around Paul’s wrist, closing in tight, and Paul could pull away but doesn’t. He opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but he still lets Hugh drag him off to the side, diverting around to his lab, which opens just as easily for Hugh as it would for the chief engineer. Inside, they have some semblance of privacy. Hugh faces off against Paul and starts rolling up his sleeve. 

Paul’s dark eyes instantly flicker down to the movement, staining red around the irises—further proof that he needs this. His skin is too pale, his breathing too shallow. His handsome face scrunches up as Hugh thrusts his hand forward, and Paul actually whines, “I hate doing it there. It’s so... impersonal.”

Hugh swallows back a frustrated noise and mutters, “You’re impossible.”

Paul looks like he knows. And he’ll never change. And Hugh doesn’t really want him to. Hugh lowers his wrist, changing the offer. Paul steps forward, so that his shoes nudge against the inside of Hugh’s.

One hand lifts to Hugh’s face, gently cupping his cheek, disconcertingly cold. Temperature is another fleeting part of Paul’s condition. Hugh lifts his hand to flatten over Paul’s, thumb softly tracing his knuckles to try and warm him up. 

Paul leans forward, pressing his lips into Hugh’s. It isn’t quite what Hugh was urging, but it’s something he’ll take, like always: even in the middle of a shift, it’s hard to turn Paul’s mouth away. Paul tilts to the side and moves closer, cutting off every last speck of space between them. Then Hugh feels the sting of Paul’s tiny fangs puncturing his bottom lip, and the coppery tang of his own blood fills both their mouths. 

Paul licks it away. He litters Hugh’s mouth in quick, fleeting kisses—his own way of saying sorry. He laps at Hugh’s lip, and his saliva closes the wound—its own natural numbing agent and sealant. It does all the work, at least for little nips. Hugh can feel the shiver that runs through Paul’s body, and when he pulls back, Paul isn’t _quite_ so pale.

Paul murmurs, “I love you.” The sentiment is all over his handsome face, thick inside Hugh’s veins. He can _feel it_. He nods, because he loves Paul too. 

But he tries to be stern for Paul’s sake, and he insists, “You’re feeding properly tonight.” He needs a _real_ bite, somewhere strong and potent, and he needs to drink Hugh up for a lot longer than that. 

A grin twitches onto Paul’s face. He concedes, “Yes, Master.”

Hugh rolls his eyes at the sass. But he’s satisfied for the moment. He pecks Paul’s cheek and leaves, grateful that it’s already a little warmer for their flourishing connection.


End file.
